


A Measure of Justice

by LivaWilborg



Series: Dragonlance - Knight and Kender [1]
Category: Dragonlance - Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman
Genre: ...Not a Hero of the Lance in sight!, 351 years after the Cataclysm, Gen, Krynn, No mention of dragonlances, Original Character(s), Pre War of the Lance, dragonlance - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-16 02:24:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12333582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivaWilborg/pseuds/LivaWilborg
Summary: When Rowan, a (somewhat sceptical) Knight of the Crown, is sent to the small town of Friholm in the foothills of the Dargaard Mountains to investigate claims of true healing, he finds much more than the swindler he thought he bargained for. An ancient evil is on the march and a true cleric of the old gods seems to be ensnaring the townspeople....Name of the Abyss, why couldn't it have been someone *decent*?!Rowan's life, and the lives of the people in Friholm, will hang in the balance ... But a small kender woman on a "mission" to find her brother, might just turn the tide.PS: This is pure fantasy adventure, just for the fun of returning to the world of Krynn that once turned my life onto a new path. I think you can enjoy the story even if you don't know the Dragonlance Chronicles & Legends books. (But seriously, if you don't, you should go read them! =D)





	A Measure of Justice

_One mustn’t live like the things of darkness and prey from the shades, nor enter into a place without letting the people therein know of one’s true and righteous path._

The quote from the 22nd Book of the Measure was haunting Rowan’s thoughts now that he was close to his target. From the muddy road he could see the open gate in the wooden palisades surrounding the small town of Friholm. A dreary-looking place in the grey noon light; nestled in the dark foothills of the Dargaard Mountains. Rowan frowned. The palisade looked newly erected, and he guessed it couldn’t have been there more than a few seasons. It had probably been built around the time the mysterious healer, Morgannon, had joined the community and set up business there.

Layers of leaden clouds were competing overhead for the title of Most Threatening and the air was charged with the looming promise of springtime thunder, but so far the storm had held its breath.

His horse stopped and shook its head in the gloom of the muddy road leading up the hill to the town, as if reluctant to go there. Rowan gave a small laugh and nudged the horse’s flanks with his heels until it continued the trek uphill.

“Cosy, warm stable. Lots of barley. Just inside that palisade.” Rowan said to the charger who gave a snort, which managed to sound derisive in his ears.

A few other travellers were on the road, trudging towards Friholm. Some were obviously injured or ill, the worst cases riding in wagons. Yesterday, he had offered an exhausted little girl and her mother a ride and felt halfway guilty about this kindness offered, as though he had somehow assisted a healer he knew to be a fraud.

As he had gotten closer to the town in the last few days, the small villages on the edge of the Solamnic Plain had been considerably more populated than normal, with travellers going to see the healer. He’d overheard excited, hopeful talk among them and felt himself tense as though a knot had been tightening in his chest. Before the Cataclysm all the priests of the old gods had vanished, leaving the land at the mercy of charlatans who tricked the naive and innocent out of their money for cheap magic tricks and promises of health. Morgannon, the healer of Friholm, was undoubtedly many things, but Rowan was certain that true cleric wasn’t among them.

Rowan’s thoughts returned to the Measure. Sometimes, he had found that necessary actions contradicted the words of the Measure or, worse, the Measure contradicted itself. ...But perhaps he should take solace in this? Vinas Solamnus himself had engaged in numerous covert raids on the Ergothian Empire during the War of Ice Tears, striking from the enemy’s blind side. Rowan reasoned this was a sort of confirmation that he’d be allowed to carry out this enterprise with his honour intact; quotes from the Measure be damned.

He sighed as he drew nearer the palisade. Almost any of his fellow knights would by now have stroked their moustaches, looking dignified and in thought. Maybe he should grow one after all? On the other hand, all that time spent on moustache-maintenance... He rolled his eyes at himself under his hood. He was used to the jokes by now. They had almost become a chorus to his life between travels; a chorus he was half beginning to enjoy. And he knew from his studies that no _Thou shalt wear thy moustache sharp and well groomed at all times-_ decree featured in the Measure. He’d looked. Meticulously.

But moustaches aside, it seemed to Rowan that the ancient Order of the Knights of Solamnia ignored whatever part of the Measure they had to, in order to do what they felt was most _convenient_ , not necessarily right. Rowan had grown up in Palanthas and recognised politics when he saw it. If Paladine, the great god of justice and righteousness, was really still there, political squabbling seemed a funny way of paying homage to the deity.

Ever since he was knighted, and especially in his weeks long, lonely journey to Friholm, Rowan had been unable to shake the feeling that what the Order was doing was the proverbial too little, too late. 

Obedience. Loyalty. Justice. Honour. Obedience especially... he reminded himself. He’d been recommended to keep his armour hidden and not to make his identity as a Knight of Solamnia known. He had done as recommended, settling for travelling in a leather armour and keeping his plate, wrapped in a blanket, strapped to his saddle-bags. It was smart enough, he knew. Nobody outside the Order wanted to find a knight in their midst and the armour would mark him as such.

He had known this when he joined. It was no surprise.

The knights were still blamed for the Cataclysm 351 years ago...

But why give credence to that commonly held theory by acting every bit as suspect and secret as the cult he was sent to gather information on?

 

o-0-o

 

Still caught somewhere between annoyed and impressed at being asked to pay two gold-pieces just to enter the town, Rowan finished grooming his horse in the small and somewhat dingy stable of the inn he had chosen, when a low rumble of thunder rolled across the sky. The animal had been strangely anxious ever since they entered the town and now shook its head, eyes wild, hooves impacting on the stable door as it stepped fretfully in its booth.

Rowan quickly reached out, holding the horse’s head, stroking its jaws and neck. “What’s with you today?” he asked softly. “You were never uneasy with thunder before. It’s just the gods mourning Huma Dragonbane.” 

An edgy neighing was his answer, though the beast calmed down as the thunder rolled past above the roof and no new rumblings seemed forthcoming. 

“Just relax. You’ve done your part and earned a respite.”

A fresh neighing came, as if in agreement with that statement and Rowan couldn’t suppress a laugh: “You are talkative today...” he commented.

A quick scramble was heard from the hay-loft above the booths and a shrill, childlike voice asked: “Can you talk to your horse? Well, alright, obviously you can; but does it answer you? I mean, it does, but can you understand it? What’s its name? Can I talk to it too?”

Puzzled, Rowan looked up. A small, grinning face poked from the edge of the loft. Short, red hair stuck out in unruly tufts and a couple of golden earrings shone from the tips of pointy ears. A child? he thought, bewildered for a second, until he groaned inwardly. A kender! The plague of civilisations everywhere on the face of Krynn! He felt completely certain the kender hadn’t paid any coins to enter the town.

She swung her legs over the edge of the loft and climbed nimbly down. Rowan stared at her green boots, pink pants and a knee-length dress, garishly embroidered with multicoloured flowers which seemed to attack his optic nerves even in the dull light of the stable. A wealth of pouches and bags hung from her belt, all in mind-numbing colours.

“So can you teach me to understand horse? What’s his or her- No, that’s no good!“ She broke off her stream of questions and stood on tiptoe to look into the booth. She shook her head, dissatisfied. Then she jumped up to dangle over the door to the booth so she could inspect the horse’s nether bits before returning to an upright position: “What’s his name? I can guess it?”

She looked at the horse, the tips of her fingers resting on her chin in a serious, thoughtful frown: “Goblin-Stomper?” The kender woman looked up on Rowan hopefully.

His hand automatically went to the bag in his sword-belt, holding the clasp shut. “Ehm.” he said.

“No? Really? He looks like a Goblin-Stomper. How about...” her attention turned back to the horse: “Lightning?”

“No.” Rowan said.

“War Strider?”

“Nope.”

“Chestnut?”

“Chestnut?” Rowan asked, eyebrow raised.

“Alright, sorry, but he is chestnut-coloured.” She looked up at the horse: “You sure keep your secrets close! I know! Silken Flash?”

“You’re insulting his masculinity.” Rowan said.

“Alright... Nutcracker!” the kender exclaimed triumphantly. “Am I close?”

“His name is Ben. So no. Not even remotely.”

“Oh. Ben, huh... Alright. So, how did you learn to speak hor- Oh, I’m really sorry, where are my manners!” she slapped a small hand to her forehead before extending it politely: “I’m Raksana Shinypalm. Pleased to meet you.”

Rowan looked at her hand and her smile. _Show kindness to all, no matter their status._ The quote from the Measure echoed in his mind and, feeling certain he’d regret it, he shook hands with her, still keeping the clasp on his belt-bag tightly shut. “I’m Rowan Virkhus.” he said. “And I don’t actually speak horse.”

“Really? But you just did; just a second ago.” Raksana’s brow furrowed.

“He was just making noises.” Rowan explained.

The kender gave him a long, appraising stare. “But you _were_ talking to him.”

“I’ve been travelling for about four weeks with no other company. I suppose I started talking to him because I was afraid I’d forget how to speak if I didn’t.” Rowan shrugged.

“Ohhh, I see.” Raksana climbed onto a crate nearby and sat, legs dangling, watching as Rowan picked the last apple from his pack and gave it to Ben.

“You don’t look sick. Are you here to see the healer?” the kender asked after a few moments.

Rowan paused. It would be ridiculous to deny it since the whole town was obviously focused on little else than their resident healing celebrity and he could gain more information by admitting his interest. “I am.” he simply confirmed.

“Me too. Or, rather, I’m here to find my family.” Raksana said, a note of sadness creeping into her childlike voice.

“Your family?” Rowan asked, surprised at the hint of understandable emotion.

“Yes, my older brother Spinkle. And our aunt’s husband’s brother’s wife, Kalla Sleepyfrown, and me and Spinkle’s second cousin, Willofree. They were all going here just after those nasty winter storms we had three months ago which really made everyone very grumpy. We were in Palanthas ...And would you believe it, they threw us in prison! They didn’t even take into consideration that we’d been so kind as to pick up some very pretty figurines which someone must have dropped and were trying to deliver them back. I never knew storms made humans so grouchy... Is that normal? But we decided not to press charges for the unfair treatment, since it was probably just because of the storm, so we let ourselves out, which I thought was really polite of us.” Raksana stopped a moment to breathe.

“So why did your family go here?” Rowan quickly interjected.

“Oh, well, we heard about the healing, of course. And none of us ever saw what someone who was healing looked like, but we thought it sounded really exciting. And we heard that it wasn’t those Seeker types doing it but some other person, and so the others went to see it; but I was meeting with a friend of mine called Lina, who was really interested in those lines on the tips of my fingers and I thought it would be rude to refuse her to study them, and also I was going to help her out with decorating this new place she got, all under ground and everything, but with some goblins in it, which was unfortunate, so I travelled there instead. But we agreed to meet, I mean, me and Spinkle and Kalla and Willofree, back at a place called Dargaard Keep a ways further north from here, which we all thought would be really interesting, maybe you heard of it? But they never showed up and that’s very odd, because Spinkle is really good with that sort of thing. You know, with remembering where and when we have decided to meet. Punctuality sort of runs in the family, so it’s really mysterious!”

“Alright.” Rowan quickly said, trying to prevent the conversation from spinning further out of control, though reassured, on behalf of his private property, by the distance between them: “But, don’t you think they might just have gotten lost? Maybe that’s what detained them?”

“...Well, maybe.” Raksana said, doubtfully: “But Willofree is good with maps and has a really spiffy sense of direction, and Kalla has been in the mountains before. So it seems a little odd to me that- Oh!” she stopped her explanation abruptly when the sound of a large bell chimed loudly from somewhere outside, reverberating through the town.

“That means there is a healing! I heard some people talk about that last night when I arrived. I’m going to go see.” Raksana stated, and in a flash, reminding Rowan of a squirrel scuttling up a tree trunk, she was back at the loft and down again, this time wearing a purple, woollen cloak.

“It was really nice to meet you!” she stated, waving from the doorway, and darted off, into the gloomy afternoon.

The door closed behind Raksana’s small, nimble frame.

Rowan stood a moment, his ears ringing, though he wasn’t sure if it was the ghost of the bell chiming or the sound of her shrill voice. Then he checked his bag as a matter of caution, to see if anything had mysteriously vanished into the kender’s pouches.

 

o-0-o

 

The town of Friholm wasn’t large and Rowan quickly got a feeling for it when he emerged from the stable but he was surprised at the crowds that suddenly thronged the central, muddy street. Most people were injured or ill, in various stages of disrepair, and some were even so weak that they had to be carried by friends and family.

At the centre of the town was a large stone building and smaller houses were scattered around it. As he joined the crowd streaming towards the central building he saw a small marketplace on the side of it and noticed just how many impromptu inns there were in the town, many obviously private houses that had felt the opportunistic need to upgrade to tavern since the influx of travellers had begun. Scattered along the street were men armed with spears, all dressed in leather armour with a red eye painted on the chest. Rowan felt certain they were not mercenaries from the way they held their weapons, but guessed them to be the men from the town who had found new employment when the healer came.

The people making their way to the central house were obviously excited, and a feeling of anticipation was palpable in the gloomy air. Rowan stood still a moment, taking in the strange procession, the knot in his chest tightening at the thought of someone taking advantage of the desperation and hope of others.

A small whimper suddenly reached his ears, coming from somewhere close by, and he stood still in the crowd looking around until he spotted a small boy, hardly more than five years old, standing in the flow of people, looking as though he was about to cry.

Rowan held out his hand to force the people streaming past him to step aside and reached the boy.

“Hello.” he said.

The child looked up. He looked thin and frail; his eyes glassy as though he had a fever.

“Are you alone?” Rowan asked.

“...Yes.” the boy said, almost at a whisper. “My mum is gone.”

“Typical. You turn your back for one second and mothers manage to get themselves lost...” Rowan smiled at the boy, who slowly smiled back, apparently satisfied with the new definition.

“I can’t find her.” the boy said.

“I have a plan. If you sit on my shoulders, you’ll be the tallest man in town. Then you can probably see her.”

The boy nodded, smiling, and as Rowan lifted him, he felt the ribs almost sharp under his hands in spite of the thick cloak. Seated on his shoulders, the weight of the boy was hardly noticeable.

“You see her?” Rowan asked.

The boy was looking around and then began waving: “Mum, look at me. I’m the tallest man!” It was obviously meant as a happy shout, but the child’s voice was thin and weak and hardly carried. Nonetheless, a young woman pushed urgently through the crowd and reached them and Rowan lifted the boy to the ground again.

“Don’t you ever let go of me like that when the bell chimes!” the young mother scolded harshly, but drew her child close in a desperate hug. “I was so scared when you vanished.”

“I was the tallest man.” the boy just said.

“You will promise me not to let go!” the mother half shouted. And judging from the lines of worry on her face, Rowan got the distinct impression she wasn’t just talking about letting go of her hand.

“I’m sorry, thank you for your help.” She finally said, looking at Rowan as she picked her child up. “It’s just... I’m so...” Flustered, she shook her head: “We’ve been here for nearly two months and he keeps getting worse. I hope the healer will see us soon, I’m at my wits end.” she explained. “But thank you.” She gave him a weak smile: “You’ve brightened a bleak day for my boy.”

“Think nothing of it.” Rowan gave her a slight bow and tried to smile before she and the boy, waving over her shoulder, were swallowed by the crowd.

The knot in Rowan’s chest tightened further. The boy was obviously ill and frail. It was tragic. He wished intensely that the boy would get better, but there was nothing to do but keep him warm and try every herbal remedy available. Waving salvation under a mother’s nose, only to let the child die anyway when his time came, was cruel beyond imagining.

Picking up his pace anew and stomping through the crowd towards the central building, Rowan pulled the hood of his cloak up, hiding his angry frown.

 

o-0-o

 

“Morgion. Morgion. Morgion.” the crowd chanted as the healer stepped out from behind a curtain onto the wooden platform at the back of the hall.

He was middle aged, Rowan noticed from his position at the back of the tightly packed hall, and clad in dark pants and a tunic of rich, dark-red fabric, the eye that had adorned the guardsmen embroidered on his chest in a deeper red. Rowan had expected a brown robe, inspired by the Seekers, hanging around a fat, or possibly ancient, man. But Morgannon looked to be strong and healthy, his posture straight, his movements calm.

The healer held up his hands and the crowd hushed.

“You have come here today to receive the healing Divine Morgion offers.” he said, his voice clear and sonorous. “I will see ten of you. The good men of Friholm will pick those in greatest need.”

Rowan stood his ground as well as he could when the clamouring rose and people, sick and healthy alike, began pushing, trying to get the attention of the Friholm guardsmen as they moved among the crowd. One of the guards came close, and Rowan understood that selection was obviously made based on the amount of money offered. When ten people had finally been chosen, they were escorted up to the platform and made to kneel, as well as their sickness allowed, in a row in front of the healer.

A deep silence fell.

The healer held out his hands, palms down, and seemed to speak a prayer under his breath. Then he pulled the hood of his tunic up and walked to a crippled man with a bent spine at the end of the row. Morgannon’s one hand went to the rich tunic, fishing out some sort of necklace from under his clothes; the other came to rest on the crippled man’s head.

Rowan couldn’t fully see the healer’s face, shadowed by the hood, but he guessed a prayer was spoken. There was a moment’s pause, then a strange, dark shimmer surrounded Morgannon’s hand for an instant before vanishing. The crippled man screamed in agony and Rowan was certain he heard a sharp crack of bone. The man fell to the healer’s feet and lay still. Then the healer slipped the necklace back under his tunic and reached out his hand, pulling the cripple to his feet. The man had a look of awe and bafflement on his face, the pain obviously forgotten as he stretched his back and stood up straight. The crowd exploded in cheering, screaming and more chanting of the name of Morgion.

As the spectacle unfolded before him, and the others on the platform were healed, Rowan noted how the healer always touched the unseen necklace and always used his right hand to touch the people he healed. When the last stricken person had gotten up, crying with gratitude before being ushered off the platform by a guardsman, the healer removed the hood again before addressing the crowd.

“Those who wish to make private appointments can speak to the good men of Friholm to do so. They will help you.” Morgannon simply said before he turned to leave, holding his right hand slightly out from his body as though the touch of the sick people had disgusted him.

Puzzled, Rowan slipped out, ahead of the crowd as they began filing out of the hall.

 

o-0-o

 

He had his dinner in the common room of the inn, examining in his mind what he had witnessed. It was obvious when he saw the selection process that the guardsmen were looking for those with the greatest amount of cash to spend. This in no way precluded it being set up beforehand.

He was, however, fairly certain he had seen one of those who were just healed on the road a few days ago.

There was also something raw and unstudied about the emotional reactions of those who were healed. If they were really just actors, they should be performing at the Regal Scene in Palanthas, not wasting their talents in a small town in the middle of nothing. Also, the mother of the little boy he had met earlier said they had been here for about two months. Surely, she would have lost faith in the healer’s abilities if she had seen the same ten people healed every day.

His thoughts turned to magic. It would perhaps be possible for an extremely skilled magic user to make a whole crowd believe they had seen someone healed. Perhaps those healed never existed to begin with?

Rowan shuddered a little. No, it was a ridiculous thought. A mage with the power to do something like that would be unlikely to spend his time and skills in a small town so far away. And it didn’t explain how he could have seen one of the healed ones on the road.

He had just finished his dinner when the door burst open and a happy, rowdy and rather tipsy company streamed in. He sat regarding them as he finished his tarbean tea. A young man was obviously the centre of the celebration. He looked in dire need of gaining some weight, but healthy, and Rowan recognised him as one of the ten who had been healed. If he remembered correctly, the young man had needed to be carried to the platform by the guardsman.

After a while and a lot of toasts in the crowd, Rowan approached the man on the pretence of ordering a fresh mug of tea from the bar.

“I take it you were healed today?” he asked.

“I was, I was!” the young man said, beaming with joy, and slightly unsure on his feet. “I’ve never been this happy!”

“What afflicted you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I was born half lame. And it spread, slowly and surely, year after year. It’s been so long since I could walk on my own.”  The young man said; a look of awe in his face. “I’ve always been a burden to everyone. But now I can help on the farm. I can provide for myself. I can even become a husband and father...” His voice trailed off, his eyes teared up, and Rowan found it completely impossible to believe he was witnessing a performance. It would be an absurd notion to entertain in the face of this elated emotion.

“Did the healer say anything, when you were up there?” Rowan asked.

“Not to me. He was just holding that necklace and saying something, whispery like. Then I felt a horrible darkness and cold everywhere and when I came to, I could stand. I could feel everything in my body. It’s amazing.”

“Well, I’m happy for you.” Rowan said, smiling at the young man before retreating with his tea to a seat at the back of the room, out of reach of sloshing mugs. He noticed two of the guardsmen at a nearby table, drinking their beer and having a whispered conversation.

He didn’t feel it was exactly honourable to listen in on other people’s conversations, but after a while their voices became louder and he heard one say: “Just do your duty. If we do our duty, nothing will happen to them.” he emptied his ale-mug and got to his feet, looking down at his compatriot with an angry frown: “Don’t be an idiot like Carlin!” he stated with a sour look. “I’m going to take a piss and when I come back, you’d better have your head on right.” He stomped out.

The man by the table was looking into his drink, obviously debating something with himself. Then he sighed and looked up, catching Rowan’s eyes.

“Pardon me. I didn’t mean to stare.” Rowan said, holding up his hands.

The guardsman seemed poised between anger and annoyance for a second, but then the facade cracked and he just shrugged. “Never mind.” he said.

“Trouble?” Rowan asked.

The guardsman looked up: “No.” He looked towards the door, and seeing that his companion had gone, he turned his head towards Rowan.

“Where are you from?” the man then asked.

“I’ve been on the road for a long while.” Rowan said, not _exactly_ lying.

The guardsman nodded. “Do you have children?” he then asked.

The sudden change of the conversation caught Rowan by surprise.  He looked at the other man for a moment and then just shook his head.

“Well, I do. Two beautiful little girls. Actually, not so little anymore. But, you know, what’s a father supposed to do? How does a man protect his family...” he asked, this time seemingly to himself.

“With honour and integrity?” Rowan suggested.

The other man looked up sharply: “Honour doesn’t put food on the table or keep your family out of harm’s way! It doesn’t work that way.” he said hotly.

“I’m sorry to hear that our experiences differ.” Rowan said calmly.

They both looked up when the other man returned, patting his fellow guardsman’s shoulder: “Come on, before it gets too late. The wife is probably missing you.” he said, giving Rowan a calculating look: “Goodnight to you, friend.” he finished with finality.

As they left, Rowan noticed the guardsman he had talked to give him a strange look over his shoulder. Almost pleading.

He watched them leave through the rowdy crowd of partiers. If the healer’s guardsmen worried for the safety of their families, something was definitely amiss. But what kind of power could Morgannon possibly have that could make the men in the town choose servitude instead of righteous rebellion?

A low, tentative rumble of thunder was heard. It was far away, for now. Rowan sighed. Ben might still be uneasy, and he should probably check on him before going to bed.

Something ugly was happening under the surface. He had to find out what the healer was doing; if he was in fact a healer? But how could he be? The very idea was absurd. There were no clerics left in the land, and there hadn’t been any for 351 years. There had to be another explanation, but for the time being he was stumped as to what that might be.

 

o-0-o

 

When he entered the stable, holding a lamp to light his way, he found a candle already shining inside. The kender woman had pushed some crates to the door of Ben’s stable and was sitting cross-legged atop them, in eye-height with the horse. The contents of one of her bags was strewn all over the top of the box, being examined by eager fingers, as she chatted: “...but then it crashed, like this –weeeooooww bwooommm- and fell into a lot of trees and a mountain, but the minotaurs that were on it, they just fell off, but they didn’t get very injured, which, everything considered, was a bit of a pity since my clever plan was-“ she stopped when Rowan entered, giving him a large smile: “Hello. Ehm...” she paused, then snapped her fingers: “Rowan! Did you see the healing?” she asked brightly.

“I did.” Rowan nodded, feeling a bit sorry for Ben.

“Wasn’t that just weird! I was happy I saw it. It got a bit boring at a point, but still...”

“So, what do you think is going on?” he asked as he checked to see that Ben was comfortable. “Think he’s a true healer?”

Raksana shrugged, her attention swimming back to her treasures. “I guess he must be, right? He did heal those people, only... Isn’t that supposed to be something priests do? He didn’t look like a priest, or maybe he did, I’ve never seen one, but I heard from a librarian once that there isn’t supposed to be any priests because there are no gods. Do you think that’s true? Do you think he looked like a priest? And I think he was a pretty wise man, I mean, the librarian, not that other guy, so I guess he must know. Don’t you think?”

Raksana looked up and it was a moment before Rowan realised she was expecting an answer, though he was unsure to which of her questions.

“I think ...there are gods and they are waiting for us.” Rowan said, leaning on the stable door and patting Ben’s soft muzzle. Then he remembered who he was having a conversation with and his hand hastily checked both his belt-bag and his sword.

Raksana put down a small book on the pile she was examining: “Why do you think that?” she asked innocently.

“Because ...I sometimes pray to them; so I’d hate to think they weren’t listening.” Rowan said, shaking his head at his own naive explanation.

The kender nodded: “That’s sensible!” she stated. “I don’t know any of them. So I can’t pray to them. Do you know their names?”

“A few names. Of the just and good ones. And of the queen of those they oppose.”

“Do you know some good stories about them?” Raksana asked, opening the book in her hands and leafing through the pages.

“A few.” Rowan said.

“You aren’t very wordy, are you? But can you tell me the stories anyway?” she said, her attention on the book. She turned it in her hands, looking at it sideways with a half puzzled, half disgusted look in her face. “I really like stories. You know, professionally. As a poet. It’s... sort of my duty... to... collect...” her attention snapped and her puzzled frown deepened as she looked at the book.

Rowan tried to suppress a laugh, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t have to explain someone’s dirty daydreams journal to a kender.

She lowered the literature. “I don’t think I like these pictures.” Raksana said and held it out for Rowan to see. He squinted at the pages opened before him, expecting something graphic, and hoping to limit his exposure to the stupidity. Then he frowned and looked closer. It was graphic. There was a degree of nakedness. But apparently with anatomical notes and a guide to vivisection.

“Name of the Abyss...” he said, disgusted. “Where did you find that?”

“I’m not sure. I think I picked it up somewhere in a really fancy house just behind that big healer building. I should probably go looking tomorrow for whoever is missing it. It’s doubtlessly important. What with all those notes.”

“Miss Shinypalm, please answer me this,” Rowan said urgently, taking the book from her hands and holding it up: “Did you take this from the healer?”

The kender suddenly laughed, a carefree and bubbling sound: “Miss Shinypalm!” she laughed: “You can call me Rak. All my friends call me Rak.”

“Fine. Rak. Thanks. So did y-“

They both started at the booming crash of thunder, directly overhead. It rumbled furiously, travelling over the town in waves. Both Ben and the three other horses in the stable spooked, thrashing their heads. Rak quickly scooped her loot into her bag and jumped down from the crates to peer out of the door as the sky finally broke and rain started splashing furiously in the cold spring night, drumming on the roof like the fingers of a giant. A flash of lightning lit the outside world garishly and a fresh rumble of thunder came rolling.

“I love thunder!” Rak shouted joyfully. “I’m going out! Do you want to come with me?”

“No. Rak. Listen to me. Did you take this book from the healer?” he repeated, but the kender had already scuttled for her cloak and run happily to the door.

“See you!” she called, and disappeared into the night. Rowan almost ran after her, but then he sighed and spent some time calming the horses down, before taking the time to look at the book.

He didn’t understand the language. He was fairly sure he didn’t need to. Penned in black and red ink were meticulous diagrams of dissections, organs, appendages. One section seemed to hold notes on the constellations of stars. Some seemed to be step by step notes on rituals of a bloody kind.

Midway through the journal, he was surprised to spot a paragraph he could read, written in Old Solamnic:

_Ancient Lord of All Pestilence, Morgion._

_Master of the Bronze Tower. Rat King. Diseased Hood. Black Wind._

_To survive, we must suffer. To live, we must cause suffering._

_Contaminate the whims of Mishakal, the Healing Hand._

_Taint the will of Habbakuk, the Fisher King._

_Infect the hopes of nations._

_Let me, your servant, wield glorious decay in your name._

 

Rowan reread the paragraph feeling his knees go weak with the realisations slowly stalking through his mind. He sat down on the crates. He had always thought healing was a force of mercy and compassion. That only the clerics of the gods of good could possibly be granted such powers. But the clerics of the gods of evil and death... Both Habbakuk and Mishakal were known to him. Habbakuk especially, as he was the patron of the Solamnic Knights of the Crown and his name was known and revered throughout the order.

His body sat still but his mind was racing. What if Morgannon was in fact a cleric... A true cleric of the old gods. He felt hope and deep disappointment mingle in his mind. The old gods had contact with the world again? But why; why a deity of darkness and decay? Why not someone decent? One of the gods of light and justice? Where was Paladine? How could the gods of good ignore an evil cleric?

Rowan looked down on the book. It felt dirty in his hands. But perhaps it _was_ just a book… Anyone could write whatever they felt like in a private journal. It didn’t have to be a proof of anything. Especially since he didn’t know where it had come from. It might not even be the healer’s.

He sighed, and listened despondently to the drumming of the rain for a moment. There was nothing for it. He had to find the kender and get her to divulge where she had “borrowed” the journal. He had to be certain before he confronted anyone with anything.

He loosened the strap holding his sword in the scabbard, without conscious thought. The crates in front of Ben’s stable door were pushed aside and the stolen journal deposited behind one of the wooden posts holding the hay-loft before Rowan noticed what he was doing. He looked at Ben who shook his head as if in warning. They were in enemy territory. An enemy who took innocents as hostages and put them to work out of fear of consequences to their families?

No, he cautioned himself. He felt a deep dislike towards Morgannon, but he didn’t have any actual facts yet.

Vaguely wondering how to get the kender to admit where she had taken the journal, Rowan left the stable and entered the downpour. Of course, this was a premature worry; he thought. He had to find the blasted kender first.

 

o-0-o

 

They came out of the shadows.

He had just rounded a corner of the rain-deserted town, coming to the marketplace next to the healer’s hall, hoping to spot Rak, when he felt, more than saw, something happening directly behind him. He sidestepped, slid in the mud a few paces and turned, his hand on his sword. The man who had swung a club towards his head, stepped out, a dark silhouette in the night.

A flash of lightning suddenly blazed, and he saw two men, previously hidden behind a market stall, and two at the corner he had just turned. One of them raising his club for a fresh attempt.

The guardsmen of Friholm.

Furious at their cowardice, Rowan spun into action, closing the gap between him and his primary assailant. He grabbed the arm holding the club, deflecting the swing, and placed two quick punches to the man’s side and one to his face, sending the attacker to the mud.

One... Rowan thought.

The few seconds this took, gave the other attackers time, and he was seized from behind, an arm was locked around his throat. Rowan grabbed the arm and slung his body forward, using his would-be strangler as a shield, and heard a thump, and a loud exclamation of pain, when the human shield was hit by something originally destined for Rowan’s face. The stranglehold released and the man fell to the ground.

Two...

The man who had just incapacitated his companion was wielding a staff, thrusting it forward. Rowan sidestepped quickly, grabbed the staff and kicked the man wielding it, sending him sliding in the mud.

Three...

Movement behind him. He ducked and turned in one motion, swinging the staff in front of him with both hands to deflect whatever was coming.

A club whooshed through the air and broke the staff in two.

The force of the blow numbed Rowan’s hands and arms, sending him to his knees in the sticky mud. It took him a second to recover and he was knocked sideways when the club caught him across the shoulder. He gasped with pain, the broken staff falling from his hands as he struggled to get to his feet.

The guardsman closed in. Rowan kicked him across the shin as hard as he could, propelling himself away with the force of the kick. He heard a muffled shout of pain as he got up from the slippery ground, seeing the shape of the man in front of him-

...and then felt a blow to the side of his head.

Everything went black for a moment, his vision spinning away, the hiss of the drumming, splashing rain the only thing he perceived. When Rowan opened his eyes, greenish points of light were dancing in his vision. He felt himself being hauled up from the mud, and vaguely registered some voices, although they sounded woolly and far away.

He fought to clear his head, but it was a losing battle, and darkness soon claimed him.

 

o-0-o

 

Rowan sputtered awake, gasping, fighting, dripping wet with icy water. It took the swimming world a while to condense in his consciousness. His hands were secured behind his back, something locked around his neck, his legs bound tightly together.

Laughter.

He looked up, feeling nauseated at the light coming from a lantern, held high by a guardsman. Another of the “good men” of Friholm was standing with a bucket, grinning at him.

Rowan looked around. There were several guardsmen standing there, and Morgannon was looking down on him with a condescending smile on his lips. At the healer’s feet was a heap of travelling gear which Rowan recognised as his own, the saddle-bags he had left in his small room at the inn. His armour was lying there, unwrapped and shining in the light from the lantern.

They were in a low ceilinged vault, a brick roof spanning in arches overhead. It was a large room with no windows. A cellar, he guessed. A single torch by a door close by, cast a tentative light, though the end of the room was shrouded in darkness. All along the walls were narrow alcoves, evenly spaced. There were people there, he saw. One in every alcove. Sick and bent, both men and women, all ages, they slumped in their small niches, iron collars and manacles preventing their escape. Most of them looked close to death, leaning against the walls as far as the collars would allow, in various stages of unconsciousness.

Rowan looked around, horrified. A woman in a nearby alcove was looking at him with dull, sorrowful eyes for a moment before she broke into violent fits of coughing, dry and wheezing, which left her slumping against the wall. All the prisoners Rowan could see from where he sat on the filthy ground were pale, feverish, afflicted, wounded, crippled.

“Welcome to the Pen.” The guardsman who had doused him in water said, putting the bucket down.

Rowan closed his eyes, trying to control the nausea.

The guardsman picked up Rowan’s sword belt from the pile on the floor: “Wonder why he didn’t use this?”

“Maybe he doesn’t know what to do with it?” the guard holding the lantern suggested, and the guardsmen all laughed.

Rowan looked up: “Or maybe he doesn’t find honour in slaughtering clueless cowards.” he mumbled; cashing in a hard kick to his thigh, the movement making his world spin.

“Now, now...” Morgannon said, merriment hiding under the surface of his voice: “Let’s keep this civil, shall we. This is, after all, a holy place.” He strode closer, his right hand held down his side, out from his body, like when he had been healing. He stopped, looking down on Rowan.

“So.” he nodded: “The good men of Friholm thought you were just a traveller, ripe for the picking. And then it turns out my god has sent me a Knight of Solamnia! Truly, this is a blessed occasion.” he said, smiling sardonically. “I never thought I’d have the pleasure to meet one of your kind.”

“Nothing about this place is holy.” Rowan said, struggling to sit up straight and ignore the dull, thumping pain in his head.

Morgannon dismissed the comment with a shake of his head: “You just don’t see it yet. Everything here feeds a god who has been away from the world for far too long. And now you will be part of this beautiful cycle of death.” He smiled: “You are going to contribute to what will one day be my Divine Lord’s grand temple. Morgion will no doubt be pleased with your suffering.”

Rowan nodded slowly as he studied the cleric: “No matter what you do, you now live on borrowed time. You, and all this, will be ended.” he said.

“How wonderfully knightly and archaic!” Morgannon said. “And shaving your moustache off; but hauling your armour with you? An interesting approach to stealth. I thought your kind wasn’t allowed this type of deception?”

“And I thought evil clerics were supposed to be frighteningly intelligent. Not mucking around cheating peasants out of their small change.” Rowan commented, anger dismissing the pain for the moment.

Morgannon laughed: “And yet my efforts have caught the attention of the outdated righteousness-brigade.”

“Tell me…” Rowan said, focusing on the cleric as sharply as he could: “Are you really proud of abducting helpless, innocent people and making them suffer? Is that really all it takes to impress your god?”

“Not at all.” the healer said: “It’s but a small part of it, but an important one. It serves a dual purpose: it lets me heal and it feeds, and pleases, my god.” Morgannon gave a nod towards Rowan’s armour: “Your kind is really not much of a threat to anyone these days, but my Divine Lord has a special distaste for you, nonetheless. And he is strong enough to withstand you.”

“We’ll see.” Rowan simply said. “Perhaps your god can take this up with Paladine when you are dead.” he suggested evenly, and could have laughed, if not for the pain still assaulting his head, at the sight of Morgannon’s pompous smile withering at the corners.

The cleric crouched down next to Rowan: That will not happen.” he said softly. “Your gods are exactly what they need to be; forgotten.” He gave a small nod of his head, then the unpleasant smile was back in place. “Now, Sir Knight, to business: I just healed the men you wounded. Quite bad behaviour on your part.” he said. “...I really _would_ have done this anyway, but let me just assure you, it gives me a lot of personal pleasure.”

The cleric’s right hand shot out, flat against Rowan’s chest, pinning him to the wall, and he spoke a few low, cold words under his breath.

Though the light shone in Rowan’s face, his world went dark, his body overwhelmed with agony as he felt his rib crack, his shin flame up in pain, a wound opening on his brow, his back beaten, a sharp snap of a shoulder-blade sending a shockwave through his entire body... Gasping, he felt himself slump, the chain of the collar exactly short enough that he couldn’t lie flat on the floor. He fought to find some way to position himself where he could breathe and ended up half leaned against the wall, his breath coming in pained gulps.

He was vaguely aware of movement in the room, but not at all capable of caring about it.

 

o-0-o

 

“Newcomer?”

Rowan opened the eye that wasn’t closed by the bruise.  There was darkness in his alcove, darkness everywhere, and he felt the iron collar biting his skin. Slowly, he pushed himself against the wall to gain some leverage. The hands tied behind his back had long since gone numb and he wiggled his fingers to coax some life into them, each movement sending lightning flashes of pain through his back. Pain was good. He was still alive.

“Newcomer…” came the thin, tired voice again. “Are you still there?”

“Yes.” Rowan mumbled; but hardly any sound reached his ears. “Yes.” he repeated hoarsely.

“…Was it true?” the voice in the darkness asked.

“True?”

“That others will come? Will they come and burn this evil place to the ground?”

“I’m not dead yet.” Rowan responded, trying to convince himself, as much as the voice. His ribs reminded him he spoke the truth.  “Who are you?” he finally asked, the question hanging oddly in the darkness, which was filled only with the occasional soft murmuring and moaning from other alcoves. For a moment, he was gripped with terror at the absence of speech.

“Carlin.” came the reply, and Rowan’s lonely fear diminished.

He knew he had heard the name before, but not where. “What is this place?” he asked.

“The Pen. Morgannon keeps people here who won’t be missed. Those the townsmen can pick without being noticed. Those who come from far away and might as well have succumbed to the hardships and dangers of the road. When they die, they are hauled down below. I know not what happens from there. The illnesses he heals others of, are given to those here. He comes here to dine on occasion. His mind is sick. Sick…”

The voice trailed off, and Rowan felt the darkness press in on him like a physical presence. “Please!” he said, his voice sounding desperate. “Please. Keep talking.”

“When the cleric came, more than a year ago, we all fell ill. Everyone in Friholm.” Carlin’s voice sounded after a little while. “He healed most of us. Some few died. Horribly. The mayor. Those in charge. But we thought he was a saviour. We swore him loyalty. He healed our children…”

Rowan leaned his head against the clammy brick wall, just listening.

There was a pause, then Carlin gave a bitter laugh in the darkness. “What idiots we were!”

“A year. Why are you alive?” Rowan asked, his voice hardly more than a whisper.

“Alive... I draw breath. My wife is dead. My children. I saw it. All of it. All.” There was a pause. Rowan listened, hoping for the anchor of Carlin’s voice to keep him from falling into the darkness again.

“When strangers began coming here to be healed, the abductions were ordered. I refused. I wouldn’t. And that killed my family. They were taken here. I saw them die but I couldn’t reach them. I couldn’t reach out.”

Carlin was silent, and Rowan felt his consciousness slipping as he listened to the darkness.

“Now I see everyone die.” Carlin finally said. “That is my punishment. To be able to stand with my chains and not reach anyone.”

“Why don’t they rebel…” Rowan whispered.

“My old neighbours? My old friends? The good men of Friholm?” Carlin gave a bitter laugh, shrill and thin: “Would you risk it? Risk your family? Like I did…”

“…It was honest. Honourable.” Rowan mumbled, feeling the darkness about to drown him.

“My honour killed my family, then.” Carlin said tonelessly. “My honour killed my children.”

Listening to the murmured song of pain from other alcoves, Rowan’s consciousness finally slipped away.

 

o-0-o

 

“That one seems to be dead. We gotta replace it as soon as possible.”

The voices were loud, there were footsteps approaching and then Rowan felt a flicker of light on his face. He remained immobile, his eyes closed, his body feeling cold and still.

“So much for that knight. Who’d have thought there were still people dumb enough to join them?” he heard a voice nearby.

“He did put up a pretty good fight, as I heard it.”

“Lotta good that did him…”

Footsteps retreated and Rowan heard the guardsmen go their round, checking every alcove quickly. He had no idea how long had passed. Hours? Days? His clothes were still cold and clammy, not yet dried, he realised. Hours then. He opened his good eye a bit.

In front of Rowan’s alcove lay his gear. His armour and sword, the chest plate propped up on his bags to face him, the sword perched across it. Just out of reach. He closed his eyes, pain and exhaustion mingling with anger at the cruelty of this display. No doubt Morgannon’s idea to increase his suffering.

 _I_ will _get out of this!_ he swore angrily in his mind.

The guards finished their round and left, the sound of a heavy bolt sliding into the doorframe sent a metallic echo through the cellar. Rowan sat immobile in the fresh darkness. Then he slowly moved, feeling the pain less severe, and the anger in his mind immediately mingled with dread. Feeling nothing was much worse than the pain and he struggled vainly against the ropes holding him until he felt the sting in his back lashing through him, warm and living.

His breath was wheezing and panicked in his chest, but the pain was a relief. He wanted to call out to Carlin, but no sound reached his lips.

 _Compassion…_ he thought. _Lord of compassion..._

The old prayer came to his mind, like a calming focus.

_Lord of understanding._

_Lord of righteousness._

_Let me see your light of mercy_

_Let me hear your voice of wisdom_

_Let me be your instrument of justice_

He wiggled his fingers again to loosen the rope. At least he surmised as much. He wasn’t sure if he could really feel his fingers or were just imagining it.

 _Lord of compassion._ he repeated in his mind. _Everything in the prayer, respectfully. But also… In case you are good with knots, don’t hold back._

“Hey!” The whisper was sharp and close. “Rowan.”

Something was poking his cheek. He opened his eye a bit. There was a flame close to his face. A candle.

“Here!” the sharp whisper said, and he still struggled to focus beyond the flame when he felt something pressing against his lips and a sharp taste of brandy seared his tongue. He sputtered and tried to sit upright.

“Really,” the candle moved and Raksana’s worried face loomed before him, her red hair seeming like flames in the candle-light. “I’ve seen long dead birds lying in mud-puddles that looked fresher than you. What happened? Why did they do that?” she whispered and put the small flask of brandy and the candle on the floor: “Why are those men so stupid and nasty? This is an awful place. I hate it! Would you like me to get you out of here? I can cut those ropes. I guess you want that… That was a dumb question. Don’t move. Who are all those other people?”

Rowan sucked in his breath when the kender’s knife cut the thin ropes around his legs. Flaming, pin-prick pain as he moved them.

He clenched his teeth as his hands were freed but he couldn’t muffle a low cry when his arms fell to his sides, his shoulder and back protesting furiously. He slowly and painfully bent his knees and leaned his forehead against them, waiting for the pain to recede and life to return to his limbs.

The kender held the candle close to him and he felt her fingers examining the collar: “I’ll get you free. Hang on a bit.” A few seconds later she put the candle down again, fumbled with the collar and he felt it release its hold with a metallic click.

“Rak.” he whispered. “Why are you here?”

“I saw some people dragging someone away, and it was you, and I followed them to that house and when they went in later, I mean, just those two people, guards, like the others around town, I slipped in. But we can’t get out that way because the door is bolted from the outside, unless that other door leads to outside, the one back there, at the end of this room, which I was just about to go through but then I thought I had better find you. The guards said you are a knight? What kind of knight?” The kender stepped back a bit, and Rowan looked up at her: “All those people. What’s wrong with them?” she whispered sharply.

“The healer... He takes sickness from people but gives it to his prisoners.” Rowan explained and very slowly got to his feet, every fibre of his body screaming disapproval. He leaned on the wall for a moment, closing his eye until the world stopped wobbling: “You have to free them. Please, Rak. There is a man called Carlin here. I think he isn’t as sick as the others. Maybe he can help.”

 “I can do that. Are you alright?”

Rowan just nodded, holding on to the wall. “I’ll be there in a moment. I promise.”

She nodded, surprisingly serious, and left with her candle, leaving Rowan standing in the darkness of his alcove. He followed the light with his good eye as she went from prisoner to prisoner, poking them and whispering Carlin’s name in a voice that carried through the large room. He heard a reply from an alcove near the door and staggered slowly in the direction of the kender’s candle.

Carlin was probably once a strong, heavyset man, Rowan thought when he saw him. In spite of the hardships he’d endured, the slumped and painfully thin prisoner was still broad shouldered and the look in his eyes at the sight of the kender was sharp, and obviously perched between complete incredulity and hope.

“Carlin.” Rowan said, supporting himself against the wall when he finally got to the alcove. Both the prisoner and the kender looked up on him.

“Newcomer...” Carlin whispered.

“We’re getting out of here.” Rowan said, standing up as straight as he could. “Rak here can free you. We need to free everyone, especially those who might still have some fight in them.” He drew a deep, steadying breath. The pain was there, a constant companion, but survival trumped it now that he was free. “How often do the guards come?”

“Midnight and morning.” Carlin said softly, his tone disbelieving. “And then at midday, when the healer is done.”

“How long is it since the guards were here?”

“Not long. I’m not certain. Perhaps an hour.” Carlin whispered.

“Then there is time. You and Rak will free everyone. Just keep them quiet so the guards aren’t alerted. I will see if there is an exit. Is there any light?”

Rak nodded: “Hang on.” she grinned and skipped off with the candle, returning a moment later with an unlit torch. “There’s lots in a bucket over there, by the door.” she said, lighting it with the candle and handing it to Rowan.

“Thank you. Free everyone, Rak.” he said and walked slowly to his armour by his alcove, throwing the torch to the floor. He buckled one side of the plate together and ground his teeth in silent pain as he put it on. He couldn’t hope to reach the buckle under the arm, and settled for the strap by the waist, hoping his sword belt would hold everything in place.

The kender’s whisper as she worked, freeing people in the alcoves, reached him as a soft murmur, and he almost smiled when he heard Carlin make the mistake of trying to answer her stream of questions.

Rowan lit his way through the underground room, sometimes meeting fevered, blank gazes from the people along the walls. He reached the end of the room and found a large, ironbound door there. It looked newer than the rest of the cellar and he tentatively reached out and found it unlocked. A putrid blast of warm air hit him; a sickly, sharp smell of decay and mould which challenged his gag reflexes. He took a moment to get himself under control, then, holding the torch in front of him, he lit his way slowly down a narrow, winding flight of steps carved into the mountain bedrock which the town of Friholm was build on.

As he walked he was painfully aware that he would have to throw the torch to draw his sword. It didn’t feel as if any bones broke when he was hit during the fight, but his shoulder blade kept reminding him sharply of the healer’s sense of humour.

He came to a small, round room at the bottom of the winding staircase. All was quiet. The rotten smell was stronger here. Two solid doors led out from the room, nothing else. He listened to the silence a moment and then opened the left one. It led to a small, round chamber, painted red, a stone block standing at the centre. There was nothing else in there and he closed the door again.

The smell in the air was quickly getting unbearable and Rowan felt eager to get his exploring over with so he could leave; not really believing there was an exit down here.

He threw the other door open.

The wall of stench that hit him doubled him over and made him drop the torch before he had a chance to see what the room held. Waves of putrid, nauseating smell came from the room and Rowan stood for a second, clinging to the doorframe, fighting his body’s reaction until he lost and threw up, spitting bile from an empty stomach, his body convulsing painfully.

As soon as he could gather himself together, he scrambled for the steps, leaving the torch behind. Not caring about the noise he made, he reached the upper cellar, throwing the door shut behind him. He leaned his hand on the wall and tried to regain control of himself, eyes closed.

He heard Rak’s approach; feet light, gait skipping.

“What is it?” she whispered, rather loudly.

Rowan just shook his head.

“What was down there? Goblins? Guards? I know!” she said happily: “Goblin guards! Or was it an exit? Did you-“

Rowan shook his head, giving her as stern a look as he could muster, to stop her.

“Worse than that?” she asked, the candle she held bobbing with her excitement.

“Corpses, I think.” he finally said through clenched teeth, drawing a deep breath to steady himself.

“Walking corpses?” Raksana asked eagerly.

 “Just stay here. I’ll... take a look... again.” His voice faltered at the sight of Rak’s excited grin.

“Let me do it.” she said. “You look-“

“I don’t really think it’s an exit and-“

“But you look really pale and I wanted to try that door before. So actually it’s my job, to be fair. And that Carlin fellow is looking after those I already freed.”

“No, Rak. Don’t.” Rowan said, seeing her happy smile. As grateful as he was that she had risked her own safety to help him, he didn’t want her further in harm’s way. ...But he also knew it had been foolish to ask a kender to do a boring and repetitive job like releasing rows and rows of prisoners. Rowan felt tired.

He sighed, giving up. “Careful. It stinks.” he said and tried to hide his nose and mouth in the crook of his elbow. Then he opened the door to the stairwell.

The kender jumped back, making a wild, gagging sound of disgust and then hid her face too, trying to stifle the attack to her senses.

“Have to close the door behind us. Not let it out.” Rowan said, and they made their way down the winding stairs, shutting the door behind them.

The door to the room stood open as he had left it and Rowan pushed in front of the kender, scooping up his torch. He held it into the room. It was a storeroom. Shelves lined the walls and putrefying corpses were lying on them neatly. He counted nine, in various stages of decay, though there was room for more. On the shelves below each corpse, a name was written with chalk. He read a _Panros_ , an _Elten_ , a _Saira_ and he felt oddly numb at the sight of the rotten and unrecognisable dead.

He looked down to find Raksana standing beside him. He saw her look around.

Then the arm she held over her nose fell to her side, her face white. Tears welled up in her eyes, catching the light from the torch.

For a confused moment he wasn’t sure he was seeing things right. And then Rowan realised what she was looking at.

Not the terrible room as a whole; but three small corpses, stacked on the shelves, one above the other. Rowan caught a sight of the name _Willofree_ marking a shelf and he threw his torch to the floor and picked Raksana up, carrying her out, a sharp snap of pain in his shoulder making him tighten the grip. She hung rigid in his arms, the candle slipping from her fingers.

Rowan cursed at himself in his thoughts for being so callous that he hadn’t even considered this possibility. He stubbed his toe on the stairs, but kept going in the darkness as fast as he could, until Raksana suddenly let out a low, wordless scream and began to struggle wildly in his arms, kicking and punching him, her arms flailing wildly.

He knew he couldn’t let her go back, and couldn’t hold her like this and keep walking, so he sank down on the steps in the darkness, holding Rak tightly while she struggled.

Rowan wasn’t sure how long it took before the kender’s untamed anguish turned into moaning sobs in the darkness, but when she stopped fighting him and began crying, she flung her arms around his neck tightly. He stroked her hair and felt her tears against his neck, her small body shaking with convulsions of grief.

He held on to her, deadened at the horror of this place, unable to do anything else.

She slowly calmed.

The wild tears turned gradually to sobs and then to small sniffs. Then she sat quietly, hiding her face by Rowans neck.

“Spinkle is dead.” Raksana finally whispered in the near darkness, her voice flat and toneless. “Dead. Gone.”

“I’m so sorry, Rak.” he whispered to her, “I’m so sorry.”

“It wasn’t you who did it.” she whispered and released her hold a little. “You are just trying to help people.” The kender’s voice was still calm and emotionless and her arms let go of him. Her hand found Rowan’s in the darkness. “You dropped this.” she added dispassionately and pressed something into his palm and then she fumbled her way up to the room with the alcoves.

Puzzled, Rowan felt the shape. An iron nail, bent in a circle, hanging from a chain. His necklace; which he had worn ever since he joined the knighthood as a squire, four years ago. He hadn’t noticed her taking it.

He replaced it around his neck, deeply worried about the kender.

 

o-0-o

 

The bell had just rung somewhere in the small tower above. Rowan looked on as Rak’s small frame, encumbered by his bags, snuck out of the guard-room at the back of the empty healer’s hall. He hoped she was going to keep to the plan. Go to the stable and get Ben and the healer’s journal. He hoped she could manage to saddle Ben without him biting her...

Rowan flinched in his mind at the thought of Rak’s actions after they had found her family dead.

When the guards had come into the Pen to go their morning rounds, Rowan had stepped out and closed the door behind them, telling them they’d be spared if they surrendered; though not really believing they would do so.

Then suddenly, Raksana had struck. Like a small flash of red lightning she flitted out of the darkness and jumped onto the back of one of the men, an arm locked around his neck, boxing his face violently and clinging to him as he fell.

The expression on her face had been one of grim, mindless fury.

This had become the signal for those few of the prisoners who could still stand. They had streamed from their hiding places in the alcoves and taken down the surprised and terrified man still standing. One of them had grabbed the fallen man’s spear and thrust it, again and again, into the bodies of those Rowan had promised mercy if they put their weapons down.

Rak had simply taken a bloodied key from one of the dead men and gone out to scout ahead; giving Rowan a dispassionate, hollow stare on the way. He wished he could berate her for this attack. But when he looked at the stricken and dying prisoners, at the blank expression on Carlin’s gaunt face, the words died before they were spoken.

Rowan closed his eyes, leaning his head against the door he had closed behind Raksana. Then he looked up, taking stock of the former prisoners in the sunlit room. There were seven people who could still walk but they were a sorry sight, and Carlin was sitting in a shadowy corner, obviously in pain, shielding eyes that had not seen daylight for over a year. It would be foolish to expect anyone here to participate. They would be slain immediately.

He crouched down by Carlin’s side: “Will you see to it that the dead men and women in the cellar are buried with decency? Both human and kender.”

Carlin nodded: “I will, my friend. And no matter what happens, you will always have our gratitude.”

Rowan put a hand on Carlin’s shoulder for a moment. Then he got up and left the small guard room.

 

o-0-o

 

The spring morning sun shone benevolently on Friholm, warming bodies full of wintery memories, calling fresh, green life forth and drying up the puddles left by last night’s rain.

Rowan opened the door of the empty stone hall.

He’d only arrived a day ago. It was almost unbelievable, he thought. He looked up to the clear, blue sky, quietly sending a prayer to his god, and checking the nearby rooftops for potential enemies. Then he made his way out into the sunlight.

Everyone in the town were assembled in front of the healer’s hall, gathering in a rough circle around the cleric of Morgion.

The people in the crowd nearest the doors to the hall turned to look when Rowan exited, and he gestured firmly for them to move and made his way through the throng towards the centre, listening to Morgannon’s voice: “I’ve called you here this morning to celebrate all the surprising gifts that springtime brings to the faithful. Therefore I will heal twenty of you today.”

The crowd parted before Rowan, a murmur spreading among the people who saw him. Everyone on this side of the circle was now aware of him, drawing away from him like a school of fish changing direction.

He came to the inner circle, standing face to face with a guardsman who started violently at the sight of him.

Rowan held out his hands to his sides, and felt the crowd retreating to give him room, an uneasy mutter growing among them.

Morgannon, protected by a ring of the Friholm guardsmen keeping the crowd at bay, had been speaking, his hands held high. He fell silent and his hands lowered. He slowly turned, clearly aware of the disturbance behind him. Rowan couldn’t hold back a small smile at the look of surprise on the man’s face.

“Guards!” the cleric shouted, and the good men of Friholm gathered in front of Rowan, their spears at the ready.

Rowan looked at them. There was doubt in many eyes. Insecurity, he noted.

“I am Rowan Virkhus, Knight of the Crown. My fight is with the murderer behind you. Find your families and go home!” Rowan stated evenly. “Those who attack will be killed.”

He drew his sword, lifted the blade in a short salute to the enemy and then stood still, awaiting their decision.

They hesitated. Rowan saw three of the guardsmen tensing for fight; the remaining seven were cautious, uncertain.

“Kill him!” Morgannon shouted, his resonant voice forceful.

He was unsurprised when the three he had marked to himself reacted.

He simply turned his side, and the spear thrust towards him impacted with his chest plate, sliding off with a metallic screech. With an underhand swing of his sword Rowan caught the attacker below the chin, the edge of his blade biting deep into the skull.

One... he counted to himself.

The blood coloured his armour and face as he used the forward momentum still caught in the dying body to push it in front of the next incoming spear, the weapon impaling the man’s torso.

He tore the blade free, ducking the third spear headed for his face and his sword travelled in a low arc to lodge deeply in the guardsman’s unprotected hip, below the edge of the leather armour.

Two... he thought.

He felt the man’s bones break, saw the sticky blood fly like red rain in the air as he heaved the blade free of the wound and swung it, breaking the shaft of the spear which the third man was pulling from the body of his fallen compatriot. The man almost toppled, then caught himself, fear of death in his eyes, and dropped the wooden shaft. Rowan held his blade out, pointed at the man’s chest.

Three...

“Get out of my sight.” Rowan said and saw shocked caution in the other man’s eyes, as though he expected to be cut down from behind, the moment he turned his back.

Rowan’s eyes quickly flitted to Morgannon and saw the man poised to flee. He lowered the blade, punched the guardsman aside and ran towards the cleric. Morgannon’s one hand was on his necklace, his other held up in front of him. Rowan raised the sword as he ran, ready to finish the chase before it began.

Suddenly, a dense fog surrounded him.

Taken aback, he swung his weapon in the whitish nothingness, hearing the swoosh of the blade, but hitting nothing. He stood still. He could hear screams now, and shouts and running feet, but saw nothing else than the dense white fog. He stood listening for a second, feeling his pulse wild in his neck.

He couldn’t hear the cleric in the din of running feet and shouting civilians.

A pair of cold hands clamped down on his neck from behind. A word was spoken as Rowan turned, blade already travelling, and then he cried out in pain, the movement halted. He fell to his knees, the hands still gripping his neck tightly, as liquid, fiery agony shot through his body, threatening to extinguish his consciousness.

There was a laugh from above him.

And Rowan’s body filled with rage.

This laugh might have been the last thing Raksana’s brother heard. Or any of the others the cleric had murdered. With a wordless shout he hauled himself to his feet, supported on his sword, and turned in the grip of pain, shouldering the cleric and running full force in a random direction.

The hands tightened their grip but Rowan heard an exclamation of surprise as he forced the cleric into a backwards run.

And suddenly the fog was behind them. Rowan stopped, his senses overcrowding and Morgannon lost his grip and fell backwards, landing in a heap in the street. Panting, Rowan put a hand to his neck, feeling warm blood under his fingers. The pain was still there, but diminishing. He looked to where the cleric had fallen and found him on his feet, fumbling for the necklace, his hand held out again.

The blade travelled through the air. Rowan felt the impact in his sword-arm, and the healer’s hand fell to the ground, severed neatly.

Morgannon’s face took on an almost comical expression, as though he couldn’t comprehend what was happening. It lasted a second. Then his scream was cut short when Rowan swung the blade again, the healer’s head toppling from its customary perch atop his shoulders.

Rowan looked down on the three piece corpse; the pool of blood spreading rapidly reached his boots in a matter of seconds.

He drew a deep, painful breath; his shoulder alive with waves of warm hurt. He fell down on one knee, supporting himself on the bloody sword.

“Borrowed time, cleric...” he mumbled under his breath. “I told you.”

He didn’t want to get up. Exhaustion made his body shiver. But finally, Rowan hauled himself to his feet. He wiped his sword slowly on the side of his pants before sheathing it. Not a completely dignified way of showing a noble weapon respect, but it was all he could do at the moment.

He turned. The strange fog was gone.

Those who had been unable to flee in the panic were still there. Crippled, ill people who had travelled far, endured much, in the hope of a cure to what afflicted them. He looked at them. At the horror in their eyes. The dreadful disappointment.

He slowly began walking towards the inn where he had stabled Ben, further down the road. People gave him a wide berth, fear apparent on their faces. Fear of him. Then he heard running footsteps behind him. He stopped. Turned.

A young woman was there. It was a moment before Rowan recognised her; the mother of the little boy he had met yesterday.

She stopped in front of him, her breath heaving. They held each other’s gaze for a moment. Her eyes were filling with tears. Then she pushed him. Rowan put one foot behind the other to stand firm, knowing what was coming.

A slap. Another slap. Her fist hit his cheek.

The blows came faster and faster and Rowan didn’t move. The punishment wasn’t physically hard to bear in comparison with the night he had endured.  The young mother’s heaving, desperate sobs soon made the attacks weaker until she collapsed to her knees, crying despondently, her breaths drawn as anguished moans.

Rowan stood still, listening to her sorrow. Then she lifted her face: “Why?” she gasped.

“When you see the healer’s cellar...” he whispered, “Maybe one day you’ll understand.”

“Move!” a shrill voice shouted from down the street. “Get away from him!”

Rowan looked over his shoulder and saw Raksana, sitting astride Ben’s broad back. Her legs, too short to reach the stirrups, were sticking out in the air.

Ben cantered close and Rowan reached out a hand for the headcollar to stop him. He looked around at the people in Friholm. Then he mounted, sitting behind the kender.

“No!” the woman on the ground suddenly screamed. “No! Don’t let him get away. He has to pay!”

The sound of her voice suddenly started a surge in the crowd.

“He murdered the healer!” someone shouted.

“Get him!”

“Kill him!”

A stone hit Rowan’s armour with a clang.

 “Murderer!”

“He’s a killer!”

Rowan turned Ben around and kicked his flanks, sending the charger into a gallop.

“Kenderfucker!” someone shouted, and Raksana in front of him blazed into immediate profanity, screaming and turning in the saddle to look under his arm. Her shouted disapproval of the crowd was accompanied by flailing arms to make rude gestures.

“Bastard knight!”

“Don’t let him get away!”

“Murderous swine!”

A hail of stones were now flying, people were running after them and Rowan pressed his body forward, trying to keep Rak from being hit or falling off, as the projectiles hit his armour and arms and Ben’s flanks.

They cleared the gate of the palisade and continued down the road, Rak falling silent in front of him.

Rowan felt the quiet almost overwhelming.

The sky had begun to darken when he slowed their pace. There were dark spots dancing in his vision wherever he looked.

Canter. Trot. Walk. Stillness.

He nearly fell when he dismounted, but clung to the saddle to keep upright.

Raksana silently dismounted too and looked at Rowan with dark lines under her eyes. She gave him a tentative smile.

Rowan just nodded at her.

A small giggle burst from her lips. Rowan just looked at her, too exhausted to be puzzled.

The giggle turned into a laugh.

“What?” Rowan finally asked.

“Kenderfucker...” Raksana laughed.

A bubble of scatterbrained laughter formed in Rowan’s mind. It burst and he chuckled: “Kenderfucker.” he repeated.

Raksana doubled over, tears of laughter streaming down her cheeks: “Kenderfucker.” she gasped.

Rowan’s ribs protested furiously when he began laughing too hard. ...But there was nothing for it and he gladly ignored the pain.

 

o-0-o

 

A cacophony of birdsong. Scent of a cooking fire.

“No, stop doing that. You can hear the whole thing in a moment.” a shrill voice sounded.

Muffled sounds. “Ben!” Laughter.“I’m on the last stanza. It’s almost ready. You act like this is easy, but I’m putting all my feelings into this like a poet is supposed to!”

The weight of a heavy blanket covering his body slowly registered and Rowan finally opened his eyes. He was lying in warm sunlight. The worst swelling in his black eye had gone and he stared at an azure sky for a while.

“Free!” came a loud exclamation from Raksana. “No, no. I wasn’t speaking to you. I’m just working out the best rhymes.”

Rowan slowly turned his head. Raksana was standing on a small boulder close by, her flowered dress and garishly coloured pants clashed like armies in the sunlight. She was counting on her fingers, and mouthing words under her breath. Ben nudged her.

“Really, you know not to do that when I’m composing!” she stated and shooed Ben away. The horse trudged a few paces and began grazing peacefully.

There was a cooking fire close to where Rowan lay and a rabbit on a spit was roasting over the embers to the side. He breathed in the smell in the small clearing. Food and delicious springtime.

He turned slowly and was reminded of yesterday by the pain in his back and gave an exclamation.

“Hey, you’re awake.” came Rak’s voice. “The food is almost done. And I think maybe I’m starting to understand horse, even though you don’t. I’ve been thinking about that knight-thing. You never answered that yesterday when we were in that awful place. So are you a knight? How are you feeling? You sure slept for a long time. If I hadn’t been so busy, it would probably have gotten boring.” Rak grinned at him and jumped down from her boulder.

“Ehm... Better, thanks.” Rowan said.

“You need a hand?”

“I’ll be fine.” He slowly pushed himself up to a sitting position.

“I’m really happy you’re awake, because my poem is done and you have to hear it.” the kender said, beaming at him.

Mildly horrified and still slightly sleep-drunk, Rowan nodded; the concept of kender poetry numbing his thoughts as he blinked the sleep out of his eyes.

“I made this for my brother Spinkle! So it’s important you listen, alright? You too Ben.” Raksana stated suddenly very serious.

“Of course.” Rowan said.

“Good.” the kender reclaimed her place on the boulder again. She drew a deep breath and held out her hand before she began speaking:

 

“Your eyes will never see the sun

And though that isn’t fun

I’m feeling like the real threat

Is that I might forget

 

We left to have some travel-cheer

But now I’m sitting lonely here

You’ve gone before me, it’s a shame

I feel I need someone to blame

 

Though it might make you rather mad

The healer’s death made me feel glad

He died, and it was tit for tat

I’m happy to be done with that

 

My journey calls, I go along

I’ll honour you with smiles and song

I think of things you’ll never see

But know you’re looking out for me

 

I know you see them too, through me

My heart is feeling free

I now no longer feel the threat

I know I won’t forget”

 

Raksana’s voice trailed off and she hung her head, sniffing. Then she wiped her nose with her sleeve and looked up, meeting Rowan’s gaze.

“I...” he began. “I think your brother would be honoured by your poem.” he said seriously. “It was beautiful.”

She jumped down from her boulder again, a sad smile on her face. “Thank you.” she said, and went to sit next to him on the bedroll, hugging her knees, the pain of loss plain on her face.

“Rak.” Rowan gently put a hand on her shoulder and she looked at him with tears in her eyes.

“I think it was true. What you said in the poem.” he said.

Raksana sniffed and wiped her nose again: “What part?”

“You now have to have adventures for both you and Spinkle. And that’s an important and solemn quest.”

The kender frowned in thought and then nodded, her expression very serious.

“That priest...” she said. “He was bad!”

Rowan lowered his hand from her shoulder, his movements slow to avoid the pain he felt ready to pounce: “The priest was bad!” he confirmed.

“Why did he do that? All those horrible, horrible, disguising, wicked and awful things?”

Rowan sighed. He wasn’t sure what to say to her. How to explain that an old god of evil had... returned? It seemed an absurd thought in a sunlit clearing with springtime life exploding all around in joyful harmony. He shook his head: “He did it because he was evil, Rak. I don’t think there is any other explanation. He was evil and wanted power.”

The kender nodded sagely. Then frowned, puzzled: “That woman yesterday. In the street. Wasn’t she hitting you?”

Rowan closed his eyes for a moment, the memory sending a sinking feeling through his body. “She did.” he confirmed, knowing he wasn’t going to get out of it that easily.

“Why? You just saved them. Any one of them could have ended up in that evil cellar!”

“She didn’t know. But...” he faltered, the sinking feeling turned into one of doubt and inadequacy.

“But what? I think it was stupid of her.” Raksana stated.

“She was there with her little son. He was sick. When the healer died, she lost hope for her boy. That’s why she hit me.”

The kender looked at him, her mind obviously working hard to process the information. “I think it’s really sad when people die from sickness. Especially children.” she finally said. “But I think it’s much worse when they are murdered.”

Rowan smiled a little at the corner of his mouth. Seen from the viewpoint of a kender’s moral hierarchy, things were less painful, and less open for debate.

“So, are you a knight?” she asked, changing the subject. “Can you send me on the quest? The Spinkle Adventure Quest? That’s what knight’s do, isn’t it?”

“Yes. ...I am a knight of Solamnia.”

“That sounds exciting.” Her sad and thoughtful attitude had turned smiling and Rowan ruffled her hair, immediately regretting it when a sharp pain shot across his back at the movement.

“A little too exciting yesterday!” Rowan stated.

“Does that happen a lot? That’s good, right? For the quest!” Raksana said, excited. “Can I come with you and do good deeds, so Spinkle can see?”

 


End file.
